


If We Keep It Quiet

by MoonlitGraffiti



Category: Santa Clause (Movies)
Genre: Also sorry for all the childhoods I'm ruining, Especially David Krumholtz, Ever - Freeform, F/M, I Don't Even Know, I'm Going to Hell, I'm Sorry, Or making, Please Never Find This
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 11:36:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13122912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonlitGraffiti/pseuds/MoonlitGraffiti
Summary: It's been almost two thousand years since you've been at the Pole, and everyone you know is gone. Everyone except Bernard. Sometimes you don't realize how much good a familiar face can do.





	If We Keep It Quiet

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize sincerely for any childhoods I have ruined in the making of this. Or childhoods possibly made. I don't judge. Either way I'm going to hell in a handbasket for this, see you guys later :D
> 
> ~Feedback in form of kudos and especially comments is always wonderful~

Maybe it’s being alone with the face you know best, but you’re tired and suddenly very much feeling your age, and being alone right now sounds awful. Bernard’s eyes are weary, heavy with what must be a weight only an Arch Elf knows. His shoulders are sagging and his hands hang limply in his lap, barely keeping a hold on the book, one finger resting on the tip of the dog-eared page, and a pang of sympathy shoots through you. You grab the bookmark from his side and slip it between the waiting pages, and carefully nudge his hands away from the sides, something he surprisingly, quietly, complies with. He lets you take the book from him and slide it on the floor away from the sofa; he’ll get it back eventually.  


You’re looking at him and he is looking back with eyes that you don’t remember being that wise.  


_Ah, fuck it._  


You tenderly cup his jaw and lean in close, breathing softly on his parted lips, and then press your mouths together.  


His lips are so soft, just as expected but still, wow, and it’s kind of concerning because he’s sitting there motionless, like he doesn’t know what to do, and the longer he sits there the scarier it’s becoming, okay, maybe this was a bad idea after all-  


He tilts his head slightly and sighs quietly against your mouth, almost like he’s starting to relax. It’s more than enough encouragement for you.  


You kiss him again with even more enthusiasm and trace his bottom lip with your tongue; thankfully he’s quick on the uptake and parts his lips and lets you in. Something about him tastes vaguely sweet like gingerbread, somewhat sharp like peppermint, and it’s really- well, kind of uncomfortable if you’re being honest. Bernard is not at a good angle for this. You pull away and he immediately backs off, eyes wide.  


He’s breathing so heavily that his entire chest moves with the effort.  


“Was… that okay?” you find yourself asking.  


_Wow, that was stupid._  


He sighs hard, but nods. His eyes are even darker than before, dilated and warm.  


“It’s just… been a while,” he confesses with a shrug, turning his gaze toward the ground, and looking at him like this, it’s really not hard to believe. His skin is warm beneath your hand, cheeks dusted the slightest shade of pink.  


You firmly settle your other hand on his shoulder to try to reassure him, and use your leverage to angle him to your liking, just a small push here, a little shift there, and in all that shuffling you end up slithering onto his lap, straddling his thighs, then you’re facing each other and lean back in and yes, this is much better. He kisses back, open mouthed but still hesitant, and it’s like humans and yet not like them at all. Some humans like it fast and dirty (and sometimes, so do you), but this is… sort of sweet. All you’ve tasted for eons were humans, women, men, neither, all of the above and more, yet none of them are like him. You’ve had better kissers, sure, but Bernard isn’t bad at all and just a bit out of practice, and judging by the stiffness in his shoulders he’s still holding back. You trail a hand down his arm, barely touching him, and he tenses the entire journey your fingers take, all the way down to his wrist, when you finally realize he has a death grip on the sofa.  


You break the kiss and open your mouth to speak, when the softest whine escapes him.  


Your breath hitches in your throat. His eyes are wide now that he’s registered what’s just happened, like he can’t believe it himself, and his face breaks out in a quickly deepening blush. It’s quite a becoming shade on him, actually, and takes a few centuries off him with its presence alone. You smile warmly at him, trying not to laugh. Bernard only glares at you, furrowing his brows in what might be an attempt at intimidation, and he tightens his grip on the couch. What does he think it is, a life preserver?  


“I didn’t come here to kill you, you know.” You hold your empty hands up in front of you to prove your point. “I’ll have you know I didn’t even come here to hurt you.”  


“Don’t you think I know that?” he snarls, curling his lip. Your heart starts pounding against your ribs, because those eyes don’t look so friendly anymore, and you scoot slowly backwards towards his knees. His face is turning a bright shade of red, but he also has his jaw set and clenched. Pushing him definitely isn’t wise.  


“Bernard, I…” You look away from him, unable to find the words you want to say. Your gaze wanders a bit before it spots your shadow on the wall, mixed with his and the couch, and you all make one dark chimera, one with two heads and a body that’s far too large and wavers in the flickering firelight. You start to slide off his lap, ready to separate yourself from this beast, when something darts out and seizes your wrist. With a sudden wild feeling surging through you, you snap your focus back to Bernard, who refuses to meet your eyes but grips you like his life depends on it.  


“Bernard?”  


“… Don’t,” he mumbles, barely audible.  


Don’t go? Don’t get up? Don’t… freak out?  


“What?” you reply, stupefied.  


He turns to look at you then, the venom gone from his eyes, replaced by something calmer, like pools of water going undisturbed. He doesn’t say anything, just absentmindedly draws circles on your skin with his thumb. It begins to dawn on you; you take his hat off his head and set it on the coffee table in front of the sofa and run your hands greedily through his newly freed curls, separate them with your fingers. They’re so lush, soft, and full of life, and bounce with every turn of his head. He moans as you toy with his locks, a sound that is positively electric and makes your hair stand on end. With a little more haste than you intended, you whip his necklace off of him and cast it somewhere else in the room. Thankfully, by the sound, you didn’t break it.  


You turn to him, expecting a thorough reprimand, but are surprisingly face to face with a Bernard that looks to be only partially functioning. He watches you through half-lidded eyes, apparently adrift in a sea somewhere else.  


Bernard leans forward, breathing heavily, -oh yes he’s turned that lovely red color again- and hesitantly reaches his hands behind you and places them on your waist. Though saying he was actually touching you was likely giving him far too much credit, it’s more like hovering slightly above your body with unsteady hands. Still, your heart twists in pity and you move forward so you’re fully straddling his lap again, and that’s when he stops breathing.  


_Come on, Bernard._  


The stirrings of life don’t take long to return to him. His hands come first, long fingers dancing over your form and he splays them against your back, holding you still. He blinks rapidly and swallows hard before he licks his lips and nods, just once. It seems so formal, you want to laugh. But you figure you’d probably regret it, and lean forward to touch your forehead to his in a show of approval. You smile at him, gently, sincerely, and he responds in kind with a wavering smile of his own. His breath falters and a strong tremor ripples through him, leaving his hands shaking where they rest against your back. You snake your arms around his waist and pull the rest of him closer to you, ignoring the way he swallows audibly, and wriggle forward until your thighs hit his hips. Bernard’s fingers contract, digging into you.  


Air hisses between your teeth. He probably doesn’t realize how hard he’s grabbing you; it’s like he thinks something is going to slither out of the dark and rip you away. Except monsters don’t exist, not in that way anyway, in dark creatures hiding in the shadows with terrible physical form. But tell that to Bernard, who currently looks somewhere between terrified and full of fire.  


You slide one hand from his waist up to his hair, burying your fingers deep in all those luscious curls, and lightly tug his head to the side. Bernard bends like putty, doesn’t fight you at all, and you kiss up his jawline all the way to his ear, and trace the tip with your tongue before biting down, the pressure just right.  


He shudders and gasps, gritting his teeth as his body tenses up against you. You can’t keep from smirking and continue nibbling, licking, sucking until he’s wound up tight as a spring, and then, even better, he _moans._ The sound of it sends a shiver of delight through your entire body, makes your toes curl. With newfound enthusiasm, you focus your attention on the bared skin of his neck, open and vulnerable and quite possibly sensitive. You press your lips to his throat and leave a trail of soft kisses and he instinctively tips his head back, and yes he does realize the good deal he has going here, and the corners of your lips turn upward, just before you give him a sharp nip.  


He jerks back so quickly you wonder if he gave himself whiplash.  


“Hey!”  


He’s trying to look as annoyed as possible, but it’s not very convincing when he’s blushing like that.  


You give his hair an experimental tug and lean in close to his ear. “Do you want me to stop?”  


He’s quiet for a bit, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s on his mind. You choose to ignore him and kiss the bite (which admittedly does look a little angry), over and over until some of the redness subsides, and tenderly nibble at the skin a bit lower down. He doesn’t risk whiplash a second time.  


Once you’re feeling certain, you keep working down to the crook of his neck until you hit the collar of his tunic, damn that thing.  


“Why do you wear this thing?” you mutter, slipping a couple fingers underneath the fabric.  


“Why wouldn’t I?” he pants. “What’s wrong with it?”  


You frown and pull away from him so you can look him in the eyes. “You know why.” You release your fistful of his hair and trail your hands down his body until you can grasp the leather of his belt. It’s smooth and pliant beneath your palms, yet its grip somehow feels like iron. His gaze flicks down to your hands and doesn’t shift, doesn’t waver. He gulps.  


He stares for what seems like an eternity.  


When he recovers, his eyes slowly travel back up to meet yours. The look there is startling, sends a bolt of something straight between your legs with its darkness, its hunger. It makes you feel incredibly small, like he’s a predator barely holding himself back from devouring you alive.  


You keep going, undo his belt buckle, and slide his belt off in one smooth motion and carelessly toss it into a corner somewhere. The clink barely registers in your mind. What matters now… You finger the hem of his tunic -its velvet is impossibly soft- before taking it in your hands and tugging it up and over his head. It flops unceremoniously to the floor.  


You turn back to him and kiss him hard, pull him close, taste and scent and touch whirling around and your magic flares to life, brushing up against the field of his, mixing and sparking; it wants to swallow you whole and choke you until you drown. Your hands work their way beneath his undershirt (really, why did he have to wear an undershirt-) and find what you’d been searching for. He flinches when you touch his stomach. It’s not as easy to disregard, but you continue on.  


You make out until his chest is heaving and his lips are just starting to swell, you’ve got your hands up the back of his undershirt, stroking up and down all that warm, warm skin, Bernard is making happy noises into your mouth, and you can’t be bothered to break for a breath. His shoulders are surprisingly powerful – they’re lean, but there’s nothing but bone and muscle. It’s pretty nice, all things considered. Bernard’s hands are gentle and handle you like you’re made of glass, which is both calming and slightly aggravating at once, but it’s proving to be more soothing than irritating, and you can’t help but sigh. You can’t remember your last encounter that felt this chaste, this… relaxing, with neither woman nor man. You wonder if it was supposed to be.  


In any case, things need to liven up a bit. You rake your nails down either side of his spine and he very nearly cries out, something that makes you fight to keep from digging into him a second time. You busy yourself with his undershirt instead, and can only hope nothing tears in your rush to pull it off of him, tugging it up higher and higher because you need more naked skin, more, and you need it now. Bernard is surprisingly cooperative, lifts his arms so you can take it off. It slips over his head and you dispose of it as though it disgusts you, joining his tunic in a pile of red and gold and beige and white.  


Bernard is pale, with ribs that just barely stand out beneath his skin and wiry muscles that hardly exist (but are definitely there), and there’s even a light dusting of dark hair nestled on his sternum- You aren’t exactly sure what you were expecting, in truth. He probably would’ve subverted any expectation; it was simply his way. And it’s not as though he isn’t attractive. You lick your lips, drinking in the newly exposed expanse of skin. No, not unattractive at all.  


You lean in – he’s breathing a bit quicker but he’s not freaking out- and lick at the hollow of his throat before kissing down his chest. His nipples are rosy, stark against his skin, and honestly irresistible. You toy with one experimentally with your tongue and he already starts to fuss, so you take it into your mouth and worry it slightly between your teeth, and judging by the noise he makes, no one has ever done that for him before. He bucks gracelessly, rushed.  


_He’s already hard._  


You can feel him through the fabric of his breeches, eager and wanting. The sensation of it only makes the feeling between your legs grow, and in your frustration you can’t keep from biting. Sometimes you hate him. Sometimes it’s for being too smug or too sharp. Others, it’s for stupid reasons like this, the way he gasps when you bite or the helpless thrust of his hips that can turn your insides to melting chocolate.  


You start to slide backwards off his lap and he digs his fingers into your waist, silently begs until it hurts. His nails are short but his hands are strong; you kiss him again, softly, and he gently parts your lips and slips inside your mouth, brushes his tongue against yours and you briefly wonder what you taste like to _him-_ though he obviously enjoys it, making sounds of what you can only guess is appreciation and doing his best to hold you in place.  


It takes a bit, but you’re finally able to free yourself enough to slip off his lap and onto the floor before him. He looks confused but incredibly aroused, staring intently at you to carefully study your next move. You push yourself up to your knees and bury your face in the patch of hair on his chest, take a moment to breathe in his scent, and strike a path down his stomach with your tongue, painting languid lines across his skin. Now comes the true experiment. You look up at him, searching his eyes for approval when your tongue licks a path through the thin hair down his stomach to the top of his trousers, and he bucks and has been trying so hard to keep his composure, so it’s crazy hot when his voice cracks on a groan and he melts when you dare to dip your tongue beneath the waist of his pants. He’s breathing hard, flushed beyond compare, and he looks positively _defiled_ , by God, suddenly things are way out of depth and you’re drowning without even realizing. Your hands have a death grip on his thighs, nearly shaking, you’re practically hyperventilating, and there’s no way you can go back from this.  


“Do… do you want me to stop?” you force yourself to ask.  


_Please say no, please say no-_  


His eyes get wide and he shakes his head, curls bouncing as he does.  


You swallow hard, mouth suddenly dry. “Okay, good.”  


With unstable hands, you fumble with the buttons on his trousers (buttons surely haven’t always been this stupidly complicated), and growl when he reaches down to help you. Immediately you realize it was probably the wrong reaction, especially by the way he retreats so quickly, and you reach between his legs and stroke delicately, but with purpose through the fabric of his pants to apologize. His fingers dig into the sofa as he lets out a heated moan, and you feel him twitch slightly beneath your hand. Excitement bubbles and pools in your stomach, and he bites his lip as he watches you free him from his breeches.  


His blush deepens and starts to crawl onto his chest, patched red and white like a candy cane gone wrong. Still, the way he is spread open, the way he’s vulnerable, takes any sort of turn-off out of the equation, and you focus your attention on his now freed cock. You lick your lips once, make eye contact (Bernard looks like he doesn’t honestly believe you’re going to do what he thinks you are), and take the head into your mouth, watching him the entire time, loving the way he scrabbles at the couch and looks to the sky, like there is a deity alive that can help him now.  


“Oh,” he gasps, gripping so hard his knuckles are starting to turn white. “Wow, wow-“ His eyes are shut, his body is tense, his jaw has dropped, and from the looks of it nobody has ever done this for him either, which is a damn shame in your opinion, because who passes up the _Arch Elf_ \- Well, when he’s not being a stubborn workaholic grump, anyway.  


You release the head of his cock and move down the shaft, trace veins that stand out in the boldest of blue with your tongue, map out every reachable inch, barely graze the skin with your teeth. Bernard is making noise and fighting it every step of the way; every moan cut off as he bites his tongue, every sigh and gasp interrupted by a sudden slap of his hand over his mouth. It’s kind of an annoying habit, really, but watching him struggle with his body’s natural reactions is also strangely arousing, especially since he can’t control those delicious noises and his trembling muscles. You moan against his cock, trying to encourage him. His eyes snap open at that and fix intently on you, and you decide to take him into your mouth again and reach between your legs at the same time, push your tunic aside, and touch yourself through your tights. He gasps loudly, like he suddenly can’t get enough air, and jerks his hips, forcing his cock to the back of your throat and making you gag. You pull off him, eyes watering.  


“Hey,” you snap, voice dripping with lust rather than the intended venom. “Just because I’ve done this before doesn’t mean I take _everything._ ”  


He’s so red, not to mention twitchy. “S-sorry.”  


It’s awfully hard not to feel sorry for him when he’s genuinely repentant. You sigh insincerely. “Just… just keep still.”  


You don’t give him a chance to respond before you swallow him down again, using one hand where you can’t reach with your mouth while you use the other to hold down his thigh and keep it steady. There’s suddenly a hand in your hair, scrabbling for purchase, and you hum around him; the vibrations register to the both of you. He groans as you pull back and swirl your tongue around the tip, gently teasing him, and _boy_ is he starting to raise a fuss now, moaning with need as sweat beads on his forehead and slides down the sides of his face. It can’t be much longer now. You take him back into your mouth and start picking up a rhythm, increasing in speed the more he reacts. The hand in your hair pulls hard, but it doesn’t hurt, and another hand settles over yours on his thigh, giving it a hard squeeze as he shudders with pleasure.  


“Oh f-fuck,” he moans, eyes rolling back in his head, and that’s all the warning you get before he’s coming in your mouth, slightly salty and wet and you swallow on reflex, the taste surprisingly a little sweet and not entirely awful.  


If you weren’t so turned on, you would’ve mocked him for swearing. But hearing the word escape him only served to arouse you even more; you can feel that you’re wet. You slip a hand between your legs, under your tunic and into your tights.  


“My-“ he starts, but doesn’t finish. He sounds about a hundred miles above you and his words die somewhere in the atmosphere- his heavy breathing is enough, though, and you stroke yourself over your folds with a shuddering sigh. It’s a beautiful sight, to see Bernard splayed out and so completely spent, covered in glittering beads of sweat and sweetly exhausted. He’s still panting hard, like he can’t quite catch his breath, and by the look in his eyes you are definitely not helping by touching yourself in front of him; he looks positively envious. If he could’ve, you’re certain he would’ve been hard again in a millisecond.  


“Bernard,” you gasp as you brush against your clit, and any fogginess in his demeanor vanishes. He pushes himself to sit up and comes straight for you, seizes your face in his hands and kisses you with a fierce growl. He bites your lower lip, tugs at it with his teeth and you pick up the pace, work yourself harder, unable to resist. He ravishes your mouth with his tongue, and it’s wild and uncoordinated but it _works_ , except for the fact that you’re starting to get a crick in your neck. Bernard’s too damn _tall_ right now.  


As if he can read your mind, he stands up and bends down, scoops you up into his arms (it’s a miracle your flailing arms don’t hit anything) and lays you down on the sofa. He holds a bruising grip over your hips and maneuvers you to a position of his liking, which ends up as him on his knees on the floor, your legs on either side of his head. Is he really going to-?  


His eyes glitter, hints of mischief and nerves mixing together. Your heart in your throat, you watch as he slowly slides his hands up the backs of your calves, behind your knees, over the top of your thighs, and then they disappear underneath your tunic. He takes his time exploring, goes past the top of your tights to caress your stomach, slips around your waist to your spine and over the curve of your ass. His calloused hands are kneading, squeezing, fondling as he groans, obviously still aroused. Bernard’s fingers cleverly slither beneath the band of your tights and grip them tightly, and you gasp as he pulls them down past your hips, down your legs, and flings them away with an all too familiar air of disgust, not once taking his gaze from yours. He licks his lips but his face is still bright red, even in this display of confidence. Your body is screaming for you to wrap your legs around him and pull him to you; you barely manage to resist. Perhaps he _can_ read your mind, because one hand grips the inside of each thigh and pushes them apart, holding them down at the same time. You gulp, heart hammering in your chest.  


Bernard dips his head low, spares you one last glance before he vanishes beneath the hem of your tunic. Immediately you feel his tongue, warm and wet and oh _yes_ , definitely good for more than just oratory. You moan, long and loud, and yank your tunic up to your chest just so you can get at that mop of curls, and claw your way into them to keep him there; by God you just don’t want him to stop. It almost seems like it hurts for a moment, but then he groans and falters in his technique, hands wavering on your thighs, and you decide that if he _is_ hard after this, you definitely owe him. Bernard tightens his grip and you close your eyes in pleasure as he laps at your core, hits you in just the right places, and you just can’t keep quiet.  


Things become a little out of focus after that; you feel his tongue work its way into you and your hips lift off the couch, your body wanting him closer, wanting more. He takes it in stride, eating you out with sincere vigor and honestly unexpected skill. His tongue teases at a tender bundle of nerves and it feels _incredible_ , working you up until you feel your magic crackling in an aura around you, works its way inside you and then back out, stars are bursting behind your eyes and the fire is blazing higher and higher, licking at its limits, but he doesn’t stop.  


“Control yourself,” he mutters; you can hear the smile in his voice. “Don’t set my house on fire.”  


You groan and pull his hair. “J-Just keep doing what you’re… doing.”  


He returns to his task without complaint. Something inside your stomach is hot and tightening and you can’t stop the noises you’re making, Bernard is hitting all the right spots like he’s studied your body for centuries, your legs start to tremble and you feel so messy and it sounds equally as lewd but just knowing it’s the Arch Elf himself, acting so shameless, burying his face between your legs-  


“Oh God, Bernard, please, just like that, please-“  


Each time you say his name seems to drive him even wilder than the last, and he groans, the vibration hitting both your clit and that sweet spot inside you. You completely forget what you were saying.  


And just like that, your orgasm tears through your body, white hot and unapologetic, leaves your body trembling and you sag against the sofa, spent. Your fingers release on their own, freeing his curls from your death grip, and he gently pulls away and moves to sit next to you. Your head lolls about on your neck to see him. You feel like a bobblehead, and Bernard looks way too smug and amused. The combination of the two makes your face flush.  


“If I could I would hit you right now.”  


He smiles, _smiles_ of all things, like you’re some young elf being silly. “I know.”  


“I could kick your ass.”  


“I know.”  


“I would kick your ass.”  


He snickers softly. “I know.”  


“… Bernard?”  


The tips of his ears perk up. “Yes?”  


“… Can you kiss me?”  


He smiles brightly, and even the silver dust on his cheeks seems to glow. “Of course.”  


Bernard delicately pulls your chin toward him and kisses you quietly, with none of the ferocity that had been blazing inside him just minutes before. How does he even do that, all fire and spark one minute and cool and collected the next? Does he just… swallow and digest it?  


… You really shouldn’t trust your post-orgasmic brain.  


“You’re just…”  


His eyebrows raise just a little, obviously intrigued, and the corners of his lips twitch upward. He keeps your chin tilted up toward him. “Yes? I’m just what?”  


You lean forward, because you don’t really feel like finishing that sentence, you just want a kiss and maybe another orgasm later but you’re pretty flexible on that point, and he probably can’t complain about it either- but he backs away, keeping his lips from you. For all his harping and addiction to a strict time block, he certainly loves to take his sweet time when it matters to somebody else, _doesn’t he_? You whine in protest, it’s not like you’re even really thinking coherently yet in the fog that’s rolled in over your brain.  


“Come _on_ , Bernard.”  


His eyes are fond and he comes in close, his breath the lightest puffs on your mouth. “I’m just what?”  


You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re just being rude.”  


And then he laughs. Actually laughs, a special, wonderful sound that fills your heart to the point of bursting. Your chest feels all warm all of a sudden. Magic is still receding but the burning logs in the fireplace don’t seem to want to engulf everything anymore, so it’s a start. Except Bernard still looks more smug than he has any right to. Before he can react, you dart forward and sneak a kiss on the tip of his nose.  


“You’re just you,” you reply stubbornly.  


He looks momentarily stupefied, but recovers quickly. “You haven’t changed much.”  


It’s definitely a compliment.  


You nuzzle into the crook of his neck and he surprisingly doesn’t flinch, and instead actually rests his head on top of yours; it’s almost unbelievable. But it feels so welcoming, so… safe, you can’t help but wrap your arms around his waist and cuddle up to his warm body, skin to your cheek, and silence falls like snowflakes around you, insulates everything in the house from the outside. He shifts a little to let you closer, curls spilling into your hair.  


You sigh against him, breathing in his scent, and his arm reaches around you to hold you in return.  


“… Stay,” he murmurs.  


Your heart jumps in your chest. “Here? With you? What about-“  


_Santa_ goes unspoken.  


_He sees you when you’re sleeping._  


Bernard is very quiet for a very long time.  


“… I don’t care,” you say, feeling a strengthened resolve forging itself inside you. “I don’t.”  


He doesn’t say anything, but his grip tightens around you.  


“I’ll stay, I want to. He doesn’t know me but he trusts you. Please, Bernard, don’t worry.”  


You wrap your arms around his neck and bury your face in his shoulder. He laughs quietly, bitterly.  


“I never thought I’d be the one fraternizing,” he scoffs.  


“Maybe he’ll be happy for you.” You pull back and kiss his face, one cheek then the other, his forehead, and even a light peck on his lips. Despite his stiff façade, he sighs and kisses you back.  


“You need to rest,” you continue, rising to your feet and then helping him do the same. One look at his face again, and he looks weary once more. You try to keep your sinking heart out of your expression, and tug lightly on his wrist. “Come to bed, Bernard.”  


He nods in agreement, follows without a fight. And as the pair of you strip out of your clothes and crawl into his bed, settling under the thick quilts, you press yourself up against his back, arms wrapped around his stomach, and you vow that he will not sleep alone, as long as he needs you.


End file.
